Saturday, 31 March 2007

If it's chipped do you keep it?

Jacob regularly points to a flaw that I'm not sure is a flaw so much as a bad habit. To me a flaw is a defect that cannot be altered or fixed easily. This could be fixed with a little effort, a drive to not do it, like most bad habits.

I suppose I could let him hypnotize me too but I've demurred thus far.

My bad habit in private? Self-disparagement.

I talk very poorly of myself but only when it's just the two of us and it's late at night or we're alone. As if I'm looking for confirmation that I'm wrong, somehow. That maybe I am perfect after all even though I don't see it. That I maybe could be exactly what he wants even though I'm not sure if I am. I'm too thin, too pale. My hair is straw, my skin is bruised, my eyes are tired and emotionally, I'm a natural disaster. I shine a light on it, only the bad. Brightly lit for all to see the ugliness that is me.

He hates that. Despises it. He can't understand why I do it.

It makes two of us.

It makes no sense at all. My ego is relentlessly stroked, backed up and duplicated in threes. I get a daily if not hourly confirmation that assures me I'm amazing, that I'm wanted, needed, valued and admired.

I'm special. Unique even. They've all wanted me. If not for my terribly unstable emotions, they wanted a piece of me.

Bridget's wild streak hears it, her heart hears it and her soul wants it but her brain completely ignores it.

One more fault for the earthquake, one more anomaly to keep me grounded, one more strange and wonderful flaw for my husband to marvel over.

Like warmth, it would be nice to save up and use when you need it most. But we don't have the power to do that, we only have the power to fake it. Artificial heat and artificial self confidence.

An illusion.

One that would be fixed. I can be told I am special, I'm perfect, I'm exactly what they, no...exactly what he wants. I can see it in his eyes but I can't internalize it and so it waits like a tide to come in, just offshore while Bridget plays on the sand and pretends that she is nothing.

Which is hard because I am everything.


Friday, 30 March 2007

I will follow you home

I should do a weekly entry telling you about my amazing nightstand, now stacked to four feet off the ground with things to read. Things we pass around, things from people I know who tell me I have to have a look or should take time out to check this or that. And though most weeks I get about a half hour at the end of every day to read for pleasure, I take it like medicine.

However, reviews are rare from me. I love what I love for my own reasons and I find people's individual tastes and subjective love of music, movies, television and books far too esoteric to be able to share most of the time. What makes you love Modest Mouse leaves me vaguely confused and I will never be able to explain my intense, overwhelming love of Tool.

So forgive me but I want to talk about something.

I mentioned a while back on a painful day that I was obsessed with being an ungracious widow and I said I was reading Lisey's Story by Stephen King.

Those of you literary-type folks who will nod approval of my mentions of Hemingway or Stevenson will now turn up your nose as if Mr. King, purveyor of fine horror novels that marked most of my adolescent reading jaunts, is a lesser writer somehow. Christine, anyone?

You would be wrong.

Read his offbeat novels-Dolores Claiborne, Rose Madder, Stand by Me, or one of my favorites of all time (of his), The Girl who Loved Tom Gordon.

And yet, Stephen King outdid himself here, with Lisey. And while I knew when I picked this up in Chapters that this widow, like all the others I have encountered, was happily married when her husband died, Lisey struck a chord in me that resonated and I can still feel the vibrations.

Her husband was mentally ill, destroyed by a terrible childhood that left him mostly crazy. I identified with the character of Scott Landon because he wrote his dreams, he harnessed his baggage and turned it into his lifelong work through his writing, all the while well aware that he was merely outrunning his pain.

Which is kinda sorta how Bridget lives.

Granted Scott was a multi-million dollar bestselling author and I might never be and that's okay, it was refreshing to read of their love through the eyes of his strong and adoring wife, who simply loved him, as Jacob does me, maybe in spite of and because of our demons.

There was even a bad guy, named Gerd Allen Cole. I'd be lying if I didn't choke when I saw that. But damned if I didn't sob like a baby through the final pages of that book, wishing it would never end and positively struck by the beauty with which Lisey found her closure for her life with Scott. And it was a little scary too. But like Tom Gordon, the scariness of the threats never manages to overshadow the emotional map drawn of the central character.

There's something to be said for just letting the words out, and not worrying about whether they will sound cheesy or if anyone will really understand them. Is it too deep, too feeling, too honest or too revealing? Mr. King managed to let it out, he let the words flow over the page and he spun an incredibly moving river of a tale of love and loss and he did it with such aplomb. Or maybe I was in the right place at the right time to be able to find a personal theme in this book and so perhaps it touched me more. I'll never know any different, so here you go.

Well done. It's now one of only three works of fiction that have literally brought me to tears in my life and it's by far the most compelling.

Now I'm back to reading college review mags because Thorn is so much more bitter and harder to swallow.

The part where PJ tries his hand at a lecture.

Boy, you really are Jacob's 'main squeeze'.

I always knew he had a 'crush' on you.

And those were the ones I can repeat, as the boys weigh in on the latest news. The unrepeatable ones were references to the friendly giant's commanding size and how girls should watch out, lest he rearrange their innards, or some such depravity.

I said I love my friends, right? Does that mean I can tell them to fuck off?

Secretly I love it but not today. Today Jacob is still rather sensitive. Today he sees how easily I wind up with dents and knocks and also how accidents happen and oh my God I wish he would smile. Just once. Ben poked him in the shoulder and made some crack yesterday and Jake didn't even move his head but shifted his eyes sideways and Ben actually made some excuse and left shortly after, never wanting to be on the bad side of Jacob. No one does and thankfully they're mostly sparing him the digs while I try not to laugh because it hurts but oh fuck me, it's so hard not to.

If all injuries came as a result of such fun. And I kept going! Which is scary because the more time passes the more babyish I'm getting about my ribcage.

But it's time to move on, to greener pastures, better topics and more excitement because life demands it. Life is to be grabbed and squeezed and emptied out and refilled and dammit, do it with gusto.

PJ took me out for coffee last night and we took the truck since I wasn't going to walk and I played Eulogy loud. Then I remembered I won't be lapdancing for a long while which made me sad and so I turned off the stereo because that's one of my favorite songs to get into.

PJ eyed me curiously.

What's up, Bridge. You okay?

Yes, just tired.

That's because you're a freak.


Well it's true. Maybe you should slow down.

We were.

You aren't twenty-five anymore.

Well fuck you too, Padraig.

Listen, Bridget, Jake can't handle you getting hurt. He hasn't been able to yet.

We didn't mean for this to happen.

No, but maybe if you two had a normal sex life you wouldn't have gotten hurt.

I'm not having this conversation with you, Peej.

Then just take it easy. Very few things upset Jake to that extent and one of them is you and injuries, he doesn't care how they originate. The guy needs a break.

We all need a break.

Right, so just cool it.

I cannot believe you're lecturing me on Jacob.

Oh don't worry, I talked to him too.


Ruining you with his giant schlong.


I did. I reminded him that princesses are delicate.

Fuck right off with that. Did you really?

No, I just said I hoped it was going to be funny in the future, because it's a good kind of disaster. Especially moving that desk.

What are you talking about?

He said the desk moved a good foot.

No way.

You hit the corner of the desk, Bridge.

I did?

Bruised livers don't come from being squished by 200 pounds of love machine.

Ah. I didn't notice but it explains a lot.

Yes, since it took both of us to push it back.

Cheese and crackers, peej!

So no more monkey business.

Right. I'll get right on that.

Bridge, you're a riot. I'm just glad it's a happy thing for you. I worry about you.

You do?

All the time. But I worry about Jacob more.

Gee, thanks.

We laughed and he turned Tool back on and put the volume on eleven, so that the next time Jacob starts the truck he'll get blown out of his seat. PJ's fun like that.

Thursday, 29 March 2007

Tender mercies.

I'm not giving up. You might.

A trip to the ER yesterday afternoon netted me a handful of painkillers and advice to take it easy. We managed to crack two of my ribs and they never really decided if my liver was bruised or not so they went with a yes, just in case. Fuck.

I'm fine, it just hurts when I try to breathe super deeply or flex my torso at all.

Or move at all but really let's just gloss for Jacob's sake. Mkay?

So hi! Radioactive Vicodin girl makes her unwelcome return to the house.

Which is really great, she's a perfect match for Guilt-Laden Husband Shouldering All The Blame, who isn't welcome. I'll take the blame, hell, I walked into the study knowing exactly how the night was going to go down, and he can't resist me. He thinks he is my guardian angel superman, somehow able to pluck me out of thin air and save me from harm. We have this fight weekly because I still wipe out on the ice and fall down the basement steps just about every second trip.

He sees zero humor in this so I brought him with me to see Claus today because for once I attack a situation as well-adjusted which is always just in time for him to fall apart. Christ, we're a perfect match. Jacob pointed out that support from me is like building a house on broken stilts and hoping for the best. He'd like to keep moping while I bounce off the walls.

I reminded him that if I am glass then he needn't insult me when I try to help and he lost it.

He has this magnificent ability to cut me down and yet he wouldn't let go of my hand. He has barely let go of it since he got home yesterday afternoon, which is fine because my solace comes from him. But I had to ask him to release me so I could go to the bathroom at one point. Sweet and frightening.

Hey, wait, that's my description.

God, we're so fucking well-adjusted. Just when we had begun to finally put fragile miss to rest once and for all. Just as we were beginning to make some progress on our joint obsessive issues with each other. Just as we approached normal. Sexually and otherwise.

It figures.

But this is not going to be a setback. Maybe a very brief delay but that's all I'm going to allow for.

When we were looking at antiques on Monday Jacob held up a horseshoe and we were cracking jokes about wedging it firmly up my ass to see if our luck might change. We got sidetracked and never actually bought it.

I asked him if we could go back and get it and oh, the bitter laugh that came out of him practically curled my hair.

I am glass. Handle with care, angel boy.

Wednesday, 28 March 2007

Burden in his hand.

 Words you say never seem
    To live up to the ones inside your head
    The lives we make never seem
    To ever get us anywhere but dead

I'll defer to the biggest Soundgarden fan in this house for today's musical inspiration, his delight at a lapdance with The Day I tried to Live as accompaniment faring nicely for me last night because, okay, I was doable. When am I not doable?

Shortest lap dance in the history of the universe. I climbed onto his legs in his chair to face him while he was on the phone, and he wrapped up his call at once and pulled me down right into his lap and that was that. No wind up, no grind out, just straight-up sex in his lap.

He's a very strong man.

Who knows what he wants. And waiting was not something he wanted to do last night. And so he didn't.

And the next office chair I buy will not be on wheels.

The visual on being that out of control and the chair tipping over but tipping forward meant I bore the full brunt of Jacob's weight as he fought to cradle me with one hand and break our fall with the other, failing at both when he landed on top of me and he knocked the wind right out of me, along with a few assorted internal organs, and I think he might have displaced my whole uterus but I was laughing and crying and Chris Cornell was howling and it really wasn't a very pretty sight at all.

Kind of a mood-killer when you have to take stock of what hurts before you get up. The look on his face was half-hilarity and half-concern because he's still fourteen inches taller than I am as much as we try to ignore that fact. I managed to stand up and breathe at the same time.

First thing out of his mouth?

We should stick to the bed for that kind of thing.

While I was saying,

We need a chair without wheels.

We looked at each other and nodded at the same time.

And then finished the night in the middle of our bed, where no one can get hurt.

I want to write very much anyway. But I didn't. Oh, I did. Nevermind, another story for some other day.

I still think an x-ray or two might be a good idea. I have aches in strange places this morning.

The thought of attempting to explain to my doctor exactly how much torque Jacob is capable of putting into sex just does nothing for me today. I'm just going to breathe through it and take some more ibuprophen.

Tuesday, 27 March 2007

Keeping promises I haven't made.

Sometimes I'm not as dumb or as blindly led as I seem to be.

    I could stay awake just to hear you breathing
    Watch you smile while you are sleeping
    While you're far away dreaming
    I could spend my life in this sweet surrender
    I could stay lost in this moment forever
    Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure

Yesterday turned out to be a much needed family day for us. With a languid start to the morning we took our time, drinking extra coffee and juice and replacing snowboots with wellies for the puddles and warmer air, and lighter insulated jackets and knit gloves for the kids. I wore a fisherman knit sweater and jeans and a vintage scarf and Jacob smiled when he saw me.

He said I looked like I was ready for a Sunday drive. An inside joke, I think Mondays will forever be our Sundays. He pulled on his midweight suit jacket over a green button-down shirt and there was the CD. I thought he had left it in the old truck when it went to truck heaven but he didn't after all.

We headed for the highway and I was singing about pilots and he was smiling, one of those happy smiles people have when everything is going well.

Of course. It was a set up.

We spent the morning poking through an old barn that had four floors packed to the rafters, but they turned out not to have anything we couldn't go home without. Then we got some lunch and took it outside to the park next to the diner, so the kids could eat and and then run around to blow off steam. It's hard to keep their hands to themselves when we're in a environment that seems fully breakable.

And Jacob turned to me and let his smile die away and asked me if I was ready to try something new.

I stared at him and didn't say anything.


New, Jake? What did you have in mind?

Going back to no pills, Bridge.

Oh, no, can we just have this because this is better.

You're not you, Bridge, you're someone else and it concerns me.

Gee, thanks, honey.

You've said it yourself.

If I recall correctly you also said better I stay on them and be here than be off them and lose what's left.

That was before everything else got so much better so quickly.

Right, we're rushing again, Jake.

No, I don't think we are.

Wait until-

I already talked to Claus and a few others about it. You had such a good balance before, and you did pretty well without pills. They're on board with a test run, with tapering off.

Jake, have you forgotten what life was like? I was so high strung. I wasn't doing well, I was trying to survive and hating every second of everything.

You didn't appear to have as hard a time.

Jacob, you can't be serious.

Oh geez, now I'm panicking and trying to keep my voice down and he put his hand on my face and it was so warm and he looked at me and I believed somehow he could snap his fingers and gold would just fall out of the sky. My beanstock giant.

You found a way.

No, Jacob, I was held together with a cool breeze and the weight of a thousand threats. Fear kept me going. My God, I can't believe you've forgotten.

No, I didn't forget, princess. But what if you did what you did then but without the fear? Picture it, everything as before but no Cole. All support, everything you need, plus the routine and therapy and fresh air and all of it but no pills. So you wouldn't have to be half-asleep. So you could stop taking the drugs.

I think we should leave it, Jake.

But you don't like it.

No, what I don't like is any more changes right now. I just got used to them again. I can stay awake, I can write a little, and things are going well. Stopping now would be asking for trouble.

So you don't want to stop.

No, I don't. Everyone is happy.

Are you happy?

I'm not suicidal, and that's all that matters.

But are you happy, princess?


He looked so doubtful.

I don't want to mess it up, Jake. I don't want you to have any regrets.

The only regret I have is that my wife is perpetually drugged and all the enthusiasm has left her eyes and she has to work so hard to smile it makes me want to scream.

I'm sorry.

It isn't your fault, Bridge, so don't say that.

Of course it is. My accountability, remember?

Fuck the accountability. I don't think the drugs are doing anything for you.

No, but they make everyone else happy. You're happy.

I'm happy because you're with me.

I'm happy for that too.

With effort, Bridge.

Life is an effort, Jacob.

So what would you chose to do?

Stop taking them.


I would want to stop taking them if I could chose, Jacob.


Jacob, if I-

You won't. Your life will never be that hopeless again I promise.

Even with-

No matter what, princess.

I nodded, still not convinced but not willing to risk spoiling the rest of the day with a big blowup. I didn't sing on the way home, Jacob played Anima and kept looking at me, but I chose to ignore the music, ignore the looks and instead I just looked out my window with my own defeated expression. I don't want to go back there, or anywhere else where the lights aren't on. Not now. God, I got shivers reading that entry again.

We did have a nice rest of the day, heading to the library on the way home where I got a mystery novel and he got some guitar-making books and the kids filled up on Franklin and Critter books. We came home and barbecued steak and baked potatoes. I had a destructive glass of wine to finish off a bottle from Loch's visit. One glass puts me on the floor now, for the record.

    Lying close to you feeling your heart beating
    And I'm wondering what you're dreaming
    Wondering if it's me you're seeing
    Then I kiss your eyes
    And thank God we're together
    I just want to stay with you in this moment forever
    Forever and ever

Jacob didn't broach the subject again until the kids were asleep and we were settled in front of the fire. And by that time I had respawned my strength.

I don't want to push you, princess. I'm just so proud of your hard work.

That's good, because I'm staying on the pills, Jake.


For now.

You're sure?

No, but I'm not taking any chances yet. It's too soon.

If that's what you want most, princess.

I do.

Good for you.

I'm still me, you know.

You're everything, you always were and you always will be.

Then we need to keep going slow, we've got forever, you know.

He looked positively shocked.

You're absolutely right. We do. We've got forever.

He shook his head in disbelief and smiled, like it was something he had never considered before and then he repeated himself, because in his head I had just made him a promise that I could never make out loud. I let him have it, because it's the only thing he ever wanted from me.

We've got forever, princess.

Life is a gift to us all, you know. One of the reasons that I'm doing better and doing well at all is because we've dropped our pretenses and turned to each other instead of turning away. He hasn't abandoned me and I don't shut him out of my feelings out of some misguided attempt to spare him from feeling like a interloper. It's done wonders for finally putting Cole's ghost to rest once and for all. Despite the continued lack of ability on my part to voice promises I'm obviously not in charge of making.

And for some reason Jacob holds me so much harder now. Longer, too. This morning he handed me my pill and my coffee and smiled and told me I was beautiful. Probably because he just realized that maybe I'm not as dumb as I look. Or maybe it was because I think he finally realizes I'm giving him everything I have to give, whether I confirm that out loud, or not.

Maybe it's finally enough. For both of us.

The late bloomer.

This is not my entry.

I got waylaid by the Rude Cactus this morning, reading his post and finding myself welling up over his words today when he usually makes me laugh. He's usually my internet lift, I enjoy just about everything except for his unpronounceable Friday post about current events because I have my head in the ground and fail to keep up with American news, my fault, not his by any means. I'd just rather read his words about his family, the job he seems to dislike or just about anything that rolls through his freaky brain.

His post today was about a journey to the town where his grandmother lives to celebrate her ninetieth birthday, and he talked about his close family ties and how it made him feel. I'm paraphrasing badly, go and read instead, I'll wait. I'll get coffee.

Ready to continue?

I apologize in advance, I didn't plan to go here, I'm on my way to the doctor shortly but my brain runs a billion miles an hour on days like these, and this is eye-bleedingly esoteric at Bridget's finest.

It made me think. I don't really have that. That small town stuff, the closeness. I never have. This isn't a woe-is-me rough childhood post, hell, I've had my thrills and my knocks too. Typically average. Just like everyone else.

Or not.

I spent my childhood talking to the Atlantic Ocean. She holds all my secrets, my hopes and my fears and my dreams. I was monitored intermittently through the window as I grew up alone on a beach, to fend for myself in the changing tides, bleached and then burned to a crisp by the sun, content to prattle on as children do, and never expecting the reply, only the comfort of that sea that goes on forever and is always going to be right where I left it. Then I went straight to the freak circuit with Loch and it may have finished me off. I'm about as mature as a lollipop, stuck in your hair.

Maybe that's why I can write for hours and hours without feedback, I can talk to my doctors and not feel the least bit self-conscious about the lack of appropriate response.

Jacob really cannot fathom the exact depth of my emotions regarding this. He only ever hit the tip of the iceberg with his penchant for taking me to the beach as an adult. I was usually headed there anyway. I believe I'm acquainted intimately with every single wave. The ocean has tasted me and I have tasted it right back. We've been lovers.

But as a grownup there is nowhere to go now. And so I made my own family out of my male friends who serve as brothers, uncles, babysitters, heavy lifters, confidants and sounding boards. I would call any one of five or ten of them in an emergency first, before my family.

Let's just say I've always been an outsider, content to keep in touch, whatever that may be, but really I'm not close to anyone I was born related to. Sometimes it feels weird. I had an average suburban seventies childhood and eighties adolescence. I was alternately spoiled and deprived. I was often ignored and so maybe when I grew up it was an unconscious payback. Now I find them stifling, suffocating and judgemental, absent when they should have closed ranks, stonefaced when sought out for advice, never once venturing out of their ivory towers until it was too late, and then they looked around and decided I would keep my secrets because they were perfect and life would go on. This is the same flesh and blood who refused to acknowledge my hearing issues which led to a lifetime of shame on my part, hiding it and adding insult to injury as I try to manage getting used to hearing aids on top of everything else I'm trying to deal with.

Cole was a perfect fit, in their eyes, finding perfection at the expense of comfort. And while they love Jacob, it's mostly because he cleans up nicely and they can say there is a minister in the family. I don't think they don't know a thing about him.

They don't know a thing about me.

And oddly, I'm not bitter anymore. Sometimes, like when I read that post today, there's a twinge. But looking back it's mostly wistfulness. Instead of being permitted to thrive and bloom I was permitted to exist.

And they'll read this and not understand. And I don't really care.

I made my own family, one that brings up all of those feelings now, and I'm grateful for it. I think that God puts all the people together who don't have that, and they make their own little families. That's what we've done, because as I said before, I'm no different than anyone else that I know. It was less of a commune, and more of an effort to fulfill all of our needs. So those of you who capitalized your obscenities at me for still being close to Loch or anyone else shouldn't bother, because you probably have relatives you can go to in a crisis, family you love without hesitation, without having to skip a beat and then make your affirmation because it's the right thing to do. I never hesitate when I say how much I love my friends.


Congratulations, you are blessed and apparently so much better of a human bean than I am.

Did I ever once argue that point with you?

I'm not sure if writing this out makes me sad or makes me feel better.

Monday, 26 March 2007

My pilot is here.

    She can't remember a time when she felt needed
    If love was red then she was color blind
    All her friends they've been tried for treason
    And crimes that were never defined

    She's saying love is like a barren place
    And reaching out for human faith
    Is like a journey I just don't have a map for
    So baby's gonna take a dive and push the shift to overdrive
    Send a signal that she's hanging all her hopes on the stars

Guess what CD I found this morning in one of Jacob's spring suit jacket pockets? Was it that long ago that we listened to that song? I was sure he wore that jacket since July but I guess a lot of things got missed.

Nice to have the tunes, we're hitting the road today to go antiquing down south. I have decided I'd like a hutch/cabinet/thing for the bathroom and he likes to poke through old tools.

It's quaint in it's normalcy, I know. Embrace it, Bridget.

Sunday, 25 March 2007

House of fog and pie.

I am agitated. I even skipped talking about cake, but there's a pie in here somewhere.

Today was gloomy, dark and rainy, foggy and silent and very reminiscent of days back home where the ocean ruled the weather patterns and it changed by the moment.

Kind of like moods do.

None of that was missed by the three adults coming from the far eastern edge of the country, all now stuck somewhere along the middle like Christmas lights on a string. One blows up, the others all go out, it's a group effort to keep the fucking lights on sometimes.

God I love that comparison. So so much.

Loch is on his way home as we speak. I tried not to cry at the airport but it was inevitable. He's the only fixture I have left from my former life and it seems sometimes he leaves me in a strange land that I'm never quite comfortable in, which is not an insult to my husband, just an observation in that it's taking so long to get used to this. I still pinch myself because Jacob will always be my too-good-to-be-true dream. I still talk to Cole. I still talk to Lochlan in terms of Cole not going away easily, the way friends can talk, the way husbands can't. Jacob no longer retains enough objectivity to talk about a few things. Bless his heart he has fixed everything else, but somethings he cannot touch.

Like the history Loch and I share. Kiera (his girlfriend of five years) asked him not to come back out here again so he broke up with her.

He's an idiot, yes, I know.

He told us that she wasn't his Bridget, which briefly ruffled feathers and so Jacob jumped the gun. Lochlan only meant that he wanted his soulmate much the way Jacob and I are soulmates and that he hadn't found that with her.

Jacob and Loch sorted that out before coming to blows. Thank God.

They also sorted out a few other things that concern me, like the affection I pass out like slices of pie to my friends, which Jacob never liked to see unless he was the recipient, and yet it's been a hard habit for me to break. I love hugs, I love kisses. I love kisses on the lips and hands to hold and backs to scratch and an arm to stay warm in and frankly, mistakenly, I never cared who it came from, if Cole was absent (mostly he was) and Jacob was busy, there was pecking order and I would go off down the line finding someone to snuggle with, or lie on or hang out with. This will help clarify how Ben got so far off track last fall.

And I've been good about not seeking out my other friends for physical comfort anymore but Lochlan was still a welcome target and I never even considered Jacob's feelings, but I realize now that Loch would have been a sort of public enemy number one for Jake in that regard and so we've just stopped cold. It was easier than I expected, and it doesn't hurt that Jacob is as much of an affection-giver as I am, so we just keep it tuned on each other. I won't look back again.

And Lochlan wanted the breakdown (ha, what a WORD!) on how I am really doing. Jacob may be the expert, but Loch is impartial, unbiased and just as involved in my mental health and so they had a few heated conversations about how and what and why, but I won't go into it, let's just say everyone is updated and in agreement. At last.

And hell, I'm masterfully fucked up and unhealthy. I have so many flaws I'm literally bits and pieces of a whole human being. Flaky pie crust. Flaky indeed. Berries and sugar and spills and a broken crust. Still sweet though. Who can get enough of it? Of me?

Well, I'm working on it, aren't I?

And Loch has gone back with instructions to keep his eyes and his heart open to find his own Bridget, like all of my friends have, because Jacob stole the original and he won't be giving her back. He won't be sharing either. Not anymore. Loch is fine with that, he always has been.

God, I just cringed as I wrote, I hardly ever do that but maybe the whole former whore-designation is really starting to be glaringly obvious, like dark circles under fluorescent lighting. Ugly and harsh.

I'm done with the ugliness. I can't even believe it sometimes how goddamn messed up I was.

Whoops, how messed up I am.

And now I'm relieved it all got sorted out. I'm happy that Jacob and Loch have dealt with everything openly and honestly and we're not going to cause any more hurt here. There's been enough. Loch can rest easy knowing I'm almost okay (as okay as I can be) again and Jacob can rest easy knowing he's no longer fighting for a piece of my affection, he's got the whole pie.

The pie that turned out rather messy, if I do say so myself.

The one that's far too sweet and might make you sick but you want it anyways.

Which is far better than the blown-up string of Christmas lights, because they're out of season now.

Saturday, 24 March 2007

Comfort in Beta.

I'm actually all talked out today.

Something incredibly sweet and grown up about last night. I fell asleep in Loch's arm, turned away from him but he was there and we were talking and the next thing I knew he slid away and Jacob was there asking me to come to bed now and I could barely move or open my eyes but it felt good to have my two closest men there and getting along and being friends.

Loch laughs with a sad smile and says he misses his Bridget-time. He only tolerated Cole in the end for me. Cole let Loch get away with murder to spite Jake. Now no one even tries. There are no head games, no hurt feelings, no winners or losers, no stakes in Bridget anymore.

It's somewhat healthier.

Loch's trying to quit smoking so Jacob is going to hypnotize him. He also broke up with Kiera, who decided being grownups isn't enough to overcome the history here. Loch said his standards were high. We knew what he meant and vigorously objected, but he said they can't fill my shoes. I pointed out that I couldn't fill those shoes and he smiled sadly again and said,

I'm fucked, Bridge. Fucked.

No you aren't.

Yeah, pretty much, baby.

Oh Jacob didn't like that and he frowned with narrow eyes and got needlessly protective. A reflex, for he and the world think Loch and I have changed. A reflex after which he relaxed. Now they've gone off to go look at climbing gear and I get a break from all this masculinity.

More later in which I explain. Since I didn't, not really.

Friday, 23 March 2007

About a girl.

I've lived a strange existence. You would see the sharp contrasts within moments. I am rather proper, a little uptight even, reigned in and expectant that manners and morals (snort) and respect for one another take priority over how one feels. Part of it is a throwback to growing up knowing what was expected, a bourgeoisie/gypsy balanced existence in which you tempered your whims to suit society. So I could maintain my benign monarchist, logical wife and mother persona and then only relax among friends, still demanding that level of respect be present but not, a more freewheeling way to let my hair down, to uncoil my strung-up nerves and embrace my enthusiasm for making mistakes.

I'll be the first one to go, I've made so many. Let me just walk the plank and when I get to the end you can give me a hard push and blow me a kiss goodbye.

Loch is coming out for the weekend. Under the guise of seeing the children and catching up, but really because he and Jacob have been at odds for too long now and we promised, all of us, that this would not destroy any more friendships. This being my supreme unraveling, and all that has passed in the last year.

And honestly I told him I wish he would stay away. Curse these single guys with disposable incomes who can spend thousands of dollars on last-minute flights in order to conduct arguments in person.

But don't curse Loch because he has been there through twenty-five years (or more) of me. Uptight and not uptight at all.

Damn, he should get a medal.

Thursday, 22 March 2007

Barry, Robin, Maurice and Jake.

All evidence of normal brain activity has been suspended because I have fallen in love. With the man who woke me up singing the Bee Gees this morning while I stirred oh so slowly in his arms.

Aw man, you know how everyone has guilty pleasures? Like all my uptight friends who love my pornographic entries? Or how people will duck into a store and eat a caramilk bar and then lie about it? (shhh, I've NEVER done that.)

One of Bridget's guilty pleasures would be hauling out the Bee Gees vinyl, baby. But only for one song. And this all was gloriously remembered last night when we were debating the value of whether or not I embarrassed Jacob with telling people he does yoga. For the record, he's not the least bit embarrassed. All the hockey players here do yoga, it's more manly than girly. Go figure.

So it's a bit of a blessing and a curse when people know these things about us, isn't it? A funny existence when those close to you know you can love the sweeter and the hardcore music all at once. I still remember the night he made this discovery, I was playing the song and cleaning up from a party. I thought he had left but he had forgotten his jacket and so there I was singing How Deep Is Your Love at the top of my lungs. He watched until I was done and then clapped. Cole rolled his eyes but Jacob was fascinated.

I thought you were Metallica all the way.

No, it's Tool, actually.

That's not Tool.

No, it's not.

You're so busted, Bridget.

Please. This is a masterpiece.

It's a piece of something all right.

Admit it, you like this song.

I can do that.


When I was ten I was going to be a Bee Gee.

You would have made a great fourth.

Yeah. Funny how things work out.

It is.

But did he make fun of me? Or make it into a joke this morning?

Oh, no, he gave it his all. He sang with his characteristic passion, since that's what he does. And I have asked him to sing it every morning to me for the rest of my life.

    I know your eyes in the morning sun
    I feel you touch me in the pouring rain
    And the moment that you wander far from me
    I wanna feel you in my arms again

    And you come to me on a summer breeze
    Keep me warm in your love and then softly leave
    And its me you need to show

    How deep is your love
    I really need to learn
    cause were living in a world of fools
    Breaking us down
    When they all should let us be
    We belong to you and me

Wednesday, 21 March 2007

Pokey the possum girl.

Sometimes late at night Jacob will come in to where I am ensconced cozily on the couch with a blanket and a movie and a fire crackling and he'll sit on the edge in front of me and watch a few minutes of whatever movie I have found. Sometimes he'll repeatedly turn around and give me terrifically comical what the fuck? expressions while I enjoy Ichi the Killer or Thirteen Ghosts, or sometimes he'll wind up engrossed in the movie too (like The Great Escape). I have found when he sits in front of me I keep watching the movie but my fingers will start to poke their way into his sweater, through the stitches to gently needle his back. He loves it. Like a massage conducted by a possum, he says.

I've never seen a possum, Jacob.

Me neither, Bridge.

Then how do you know?

I don't. But I'm guessing that must be what they would feel like.

We're weird, aren't we?

Yes, princess. But it's a good weird.

The very best kind.



I didn't even tell you there's a cake here.

And it looks very yummy.

You're still thinking about the yoga stud, aren't you?


Parables of Bridget.

Good morning planet.

Bridget is happy today.

With one eyebrow up as the polite boyfight continues. You should see the restrained emails and phonecalls between Lochlan and Jacob as they both struggle to point out how much they are helping me. Me? I refuse to get involved because that choice I will never make. Loch's been near forever and he's never going anywhere unless it's his choice and so he feels very comfortable making his opinions known. Jacob is being so gracious, he's more familiar with the territory, i.e. Bridget's mental health and is nicely deflecting the opinionated rants. Loch's being a tad childish, life isn't that simple and he knows it, I think, no, I know he misses my presence in his life as much as I miss him. So he takes it out on Jake. Which is not fair, but understood.

But for once I'm happy for a little hands-off, and the distance that prevents Jacob and Loch from going down swinging with each other, though Jacob insists he doesn't do that, please. They are boys, and boys fight.

Even when they grow up and know better.

But hey! I have happy news of the most decadent kind.

Therapies that I will talk about, healing engineered to reduce me to jellyfish texture and prevent me from being capable of feeling poorly about fuck-all. Healing that relaxes me, and is good for me in a way that gives instant gratification. Jacob says I leave these with a smile on my face that makes him fall to his knees to thank God for one small light, me and a happiest version of me. Not the hesitant fluttering skeletal elf who flits through his world with barely a murmur.

Because, yeah that was a painful but strangely apt description made at one point.

We're doing co-ed yoga too. Which helps in a surprising way. In a room that feels like a sauna. With about eight other couples who all appear very well-adjusted and in some kind of competition to see who is the crunchiest, earthiest of us all, but I just close my eyes and breathe and work through the classes and every now and then I steal a glimpse of my husband who, like the other guys, have taken to attending in just baggy yoga pants. No shirt, bare feet. In a room that's forty degrees. Flexing every muscle he has and there are a lot of them.

Shall I give you a moment alone with that image?

Yes, I thought so. Snort.

That alone makes it a worthwhile endeavour. If I could take a picture I would but my phone stays home because it would steam up anyhow.

And the massages, though those are only once a week. Those leave me slipping out of my chair and barely able to think past feeeeels sooo goooood. Sort of an all-day orgasm of the most beautiful sort.

And the best part is that all of it is indefinite, a schedule blissfully permanent as Jacob continues to let go of his work obligations, having gone from fifteen meetings a week to about four, and putting us before everything else, and me at home before me in some sort of inpatient treatment, which was where I was headed headlong, running at full-speed into self-destruction.

And it's not working because he spoils me. Lord knows, I spoil him too and by the grace of God he's a very happy man, when most would have run screaming for the hills after deliberating choosing a life with someone like me.

It's working because we're taking our time again. Everything works better when you give things time to work. When you slow life down and start with the basics, only adding things in as you can handle them. As Bridget feels ready, has become the mantra.

There are still days of total despair when I write about marshmallows and poets and you know something is wrong but I won't admit it and days when I'd like to point out the pills sometimes aren't working and sometimes I'm tired of people and industrial places and hearing aids and appointments and days where it's very difficult to get out bed but I'm pushed out anyways and I land on the floor with a thud and Jacob laughs and helps me through the hard parts and he says that I reward him daily not with a smile or a kiss or a promise but with a continued and welcomed effort into getting better. For us, for me.

    So familiar and overwhelmingly warm
    This one, this form I hold now.
    Embracing you, this reality here,
    This one, this form I hold now, so
    Wide eyed and hopeful.

    Wide eyed and hopefully wild.
    We barely remember what came before this precious moment,
    Choosing to be here right now. Hold on, stay inside...
    This body holding me, reminding me that I am not alone in
    This body makes me feel eternal.
    All this pain is an illusion.

Tuesday, 20 March 2007

Weathering and worn.

There is a hole in my favorite vintage wool car coat.

Not a huge one, but noticeable nevertheless. I noticed it on my sleeve when I lifted my cup in the coffeeshop downtown after yet another random shuffle of a schedule which has gone all to hell now, and what was going to be my therapy day yesterday with Christian playing chauffeur became a Tuesday visit with Jacob by my side. Jacob, who always tempts me with a suggestion of a late breakfast stop at the coffee shop around that corner from the office building that holds so many of my secrets it's become like a second home. Or at least a diary made of columns and cornerstones only I don't have the key.

So there I sit, depleted and exhausted and somewhat satisfied with how the day went as I chattered and listened with Jacob while we sipped good coffee and he ate a cinnamon bun the size of my head and I picked at a butter tart and he pointed to my sleeve and said I needed a new coat.

This coat was purchased at a terrific little vintage store in Vancouver and made it through four decades intact, I wear it for a few winters and it disintegrates right off my bones.

I do that. I ruin things. Just by being near them.

But sometimes things are fixable. Even people. They're sometimes fixable too.

I agree to Jacob's offer and then I sit and study him while he describes something he is working on and I notice the lines around his eyes, what we call squint lines from living in the sun for so long that are very noticeable now. I see also a few strands of white in the strawberry blonde beard he is growing back and his hands, his huge hands which have always shown his age first. Their rough, battered covering of skin stretched tight and strong over his big bones. Capable and knowledgeable, his hands show that he hasn't forged a life of leisure. He could build a house or end a life with those hands and yet he is able to fasten the most delicate bracelet around my wrist or pick up seed beads from the cracks between the boards of the floor, or to trace my flesh and make me tremble with the softest touch ever.

What are you doing, princess?

Just looking at you.

Then why do you look so sad? I thought you said I was okay-looking?

I shook my head and spoke softly, No, I actually find you incredibly beautiful, Jacob.

Then why the long face?

I've made you look tired.

I think everyone looks tired. It's been a long winter, princess.

Yes it has.

He smiled at me with love brimming in his eyes, sometimes we don't have to say a whole lot to understand each other.

So how about the new coat now?

No, I think I'd like to just wear this one for a bit longer.

He looked at me a little funny but he didn't say any more on the subject, and being as tiny as I am, the sleeves were long enough on me to turn under and re-hem in order to hide the hole.

If only I could re-hem Bridget. You know, to hide the places that show the most wear.

Monday, 19 March 2007

Too big, too little and just right.

The shortcut across the ball field proved to be a mistake on a bitterly cold windy morning on the way home from the school. I walked lightly across the frozen crust of snow and ice that sat on top of the layers of softer snow, the result of a brief melt that was cut off by a new storm, a new cold front. Jacob forged ahead with equal ease, despite dropping down through the ice with every step, sinking almost halfway to his knees, making me taller than he is for the first and last time ever, which I pointed out with glee. He just grinned and kept going, hands jammed deep in corduroy pockets, scarf up around his ears, hat flaps down and a curse to grow his hair back as long as it was before.

When we finally made it back, we decided to skip coffee and make hot chocolate instead. I dragged the step stool over to the counter, but he beat me to it, and easily reached the top shelf in the cupboard. He passed me the jar and smiled and I made two cups, with baby marshmallows floating in the tops, and fixed a plate of graham crackers and grapes, and we retired to the study to sit on either side of his big desk, he in his big chair and me on my knees in the Windsor chair halfway across the desk so I can see what he's writing.

Almost at the same time we both felt the need to point out we wanted to stay home for March Break and just do kid stuff. We laughed. We've been tossing short trip ideas around for a few weeks but neither once of us want to really go anywhere. Instead we're going to spend next week schlepping the kids to the library, the museum, the planetarium and probably Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Sunday, 18 March 2007

Jacob the lionhearted.

   Cowardly Lion: All right, I'll go in there for Dorothy. Wicked Witch or no Wicked Witch, guards or no guards, I'll tear them apart. I may not come out alive, but I'm going in there. There's only one thing I want you fellows to do.

    Tin Woodsman: What's that?

    Cowardly Lion: Talk me out of it.

Last night we came home in a cab, without the truck and more than a little early. I won't drive medicated. He was half loaded and on a mission. It was the return of Jacob the Pooh.

Bridget, something very important has occurred and I think I would much like to go over it with you in so much as you need to hear this, I think. Listen way more carefully than usual for me, my princess and I'll begin to tell you all of it.


No, Bridget, I have figured all of it out. It's amazing, baby girl. I've got it.


Shhh. Just let me while I have so much of this feeling of courage. I can meet you halfway.


Shhh. Yes. Halfway. If I bring the light in and shine it around we can see what we've got.

I waited, listening.

Are you with me? Say something.

I have no idea what you're talking about, Jacob.

You can show me what you want because I tuned you out and now I'm in the dark but I've got the light so you show me where you want to go and I'm open to trying it and I won't draw the line unless you're going to get hurt. Okay, princess, we need to go now before I change my minds. Because in a while I may have a difficult time with this and so it must be now.

Okay Hubbell.


Nevermind. Jake, I don't think you're in any shape to make this kind of decision.

Well you know what I know already and that's that you're mine. You're mine and no one else's-they cannot have you! You're my girl now and I love you and I want you to have everything that I haven't given you yet and I think right about now is a time that would be good for that, don't you think and then you really would be all mine. That's all I ever wanted, princess, was for you to be mine of my own.

Oh hell, now he's slurring himself into incomprehensible whispers. And my eyes are watering from the whiskey fumes he is emanating and from trying to not cry at the generosity of his efforts.

Oh this is great, princess, the ceiling is turning. Come and see this view for ourselves.

Jacob, you're so fucked.

No, it's cool. Come here so I can hold you and I never want to be in another spot except for this one because this one is where I want to be.

He pulled down my jeans (that I opted to wear at the last minute instead of a dress) and then swore because I was still fully dressed while he fumbled with my clothes and his own and I opted not to help him because I never help him unless he asks, he likes it that way. Then he just stopped and lay flat on his back with his arms spread out.

Oh God, princess. Make it stop.

Jacob, it has to wear off.

Oh my God. This is horrible.

No, you know what's going to suck? Tomorrow. Ever heard the saying "The bigger they are the harder they fall?" You're going to fall, preacher boy and it's going to be from very high up.

Oh my God.

How much did you have?

Two drinks. Just two.

You've got to be kidding me. I'm totally ashamed of you right now.

There is not enough of your Irish in me tonight.

That's because I'm so much tougher than most people, Jacob. Right?

Oh my God, you are so fucking sweet. Come here.

He got his hands into my jeans again and promptly fell asleep.

Today is going to be long.

Saturday, 17 March 2007

Love song.

Do you think Dorothy Parker knew Jacob in a past life?

I laughed so much this morning over coffee and Baileys while I read this out loud that I can be left with no other conclusion. It's all in jest though, because I wouldn't trade him for the world, but darn it if I don't see him all over this poem.

    My own dear love, he is strong and bold
    And he cares not what comes after.
    His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
    And his eyes are lit with laughter.
    He is jubilant as a flag unfurled
    Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
    My own dear love, he is all my world,
    And I wish I'd never met him.

    My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
    And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
    The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
    And the skies are sunlit for him.
    As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
    As the fragrance of acacia.
    My own dear love, he is all my dreams,
    And I wish he were in Asia.

    My love runs by like a day in June,
    And he makes no friends of sorrows.
    He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
    In the pathway of the morrows.
    He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
    Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
    My own dear love, he is all my heart,
    And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

And to think, as I learn about Dorothy, I had no idea she was the author of a quote I use all the time, Brevity is the soul of lingerie. And little did I realize exactly how much we have in common. Somewhat fascinating and eerie all at once.

You can take a whore to culture, but you can't make her think.

Friday, 16 March 2007

The Irish are coming.

Also, now would not be the best time to remind me that St. Patrick's Day is tomorrow and it's my most favorite day of the year and we've accepted a dinner party invite to Sam and Elisabeth's and had planned to have a whole bunch of very adult fun. Sitter is booked, new dress is ready to roll, green moebius shawl finished to match my eyes.

I get my Irish on very well. And I'm starting to feel a little better. Not a lot but I'll take it.

Happy St. Patrick's Day in advance, dear Bridget.

No follow.

Huh. When I went to sleep yesterday I didn't think I would sleep quite that long.

The quiet absence of exciting drama, romance, porn and general nonsense around here this week has been a blessing. I have been felled by the mother of all headaches and barricaded myself in the bedroom to sleep in one of you-know-who's big t-shirts and an ice pack, ignoring phones and doorbells and Jacob and Lochlan's newest boyfight. I'm still shaky and my head still hurts.

My absence means that my kitchen saw no action other than toast and coffee but all the take-out menus are stacked on top of the fridge with the cordless phone. So at least they ate.

Me, not so much. I would wake up and find plates that I would ignore and then go back to sleep and they'd be gone again. I've been rescheduled with Claus for Monday first thing because you don't even want to know what they say about sleeping this much and headaches and tension and stress and general apathy of this magnitude.

They say it's dangerous. Me? I don't care one way or another.

The irony.

It isn't lost on me now.

I really wish my brain would cooperate.

Thursday, 15 March 2007

Forget me nots.

(Today's journal entry is from Loch, who wrote a new mermaid poem to cheer me up because winter isn't letting go and Bridget is having a rough day/week/month/life. Enjoy.)

    Way down deep where the lobsters sleep
    The mermaid waited for spring
    Encased in ice she moved so slow
    She couldn't do a thing

    The angel fluttered up so high
    warming just above
    the clouds that held the coldest air
    while he waited for his love

    Her hair snowflakes, her eyes green jewels
    Her lips were a frozen rose
    Her skin was brittle to the touch
    as was her button nose

    Rooted to the ocean floor
    in a prison of clear glass
    the mermaid held her lover's gaze
    her spell forever cast

    And then one day the sun rose high
    above the frozen earth
    the block of ice began to melt
    and he reached his lover's worth

    He stroked her skin while the icicles shrank
    and her skin began to warm
    He watched as her hair began to swirl
    and waves began to form

    Bursting forth from the winter's cage
    the lovers danced through spring
    Finally in each other's arms
    where together they could sing

    Though their love is strong and true
    the trials they must face
    to be together and at peace
    in this godforsaken place

    For when they are together
    and the world is to be seen
    they travel down to their beautiful house
    halfway in between

    And there the mermaid withers
    lost without her sea
    and the angel weighs a ton
    yearning to be free

    For she needs to swim and he must soar
    to be together is so tough
    Both the angel and his mermaid girl
    thought their love would be enough

    Since he is of the skies above
    and she is of the ocean
    All their kisses, all their love
    was going through the motions

    He never gave up his angel wings
    She hid her fins and tail
    defying the odds they made a vow
    their love would never fail

    They made a promise to themselves
    A new dance all their own
    They call it the cloud-and-ocean waltz
    And on them it has grown

    Now if you look out very far
    as far as your eyes can see
    You'll see them on the horizon now
    as close as close can be

    Watch them waltz together now
    a sight, our favorite pair
    but look closely or you will miss
    his kisses in her hair

    And now that she is free from the ice
    it's time to end this letter
    Their life at last is full of hope
    and will get even better.

Wednesday, 14 March 2007


Here's the part where I stomp my feet and frown and bite my tongue because once again, an emergency takes my beloved Claus away for the morning. As if other people are not allowed to melt down during my appointment time. The nerve.

And then two for the road, because Jacob also was called to hospice this morning which means he might be gone most of the day. But that's not a complaint because he is needed. I'm not the only one he comforts and I am grateful he is where he is needed most right now. I hate days that people die.

I'm salvaging the day, after I get Baby Ruth and Oh Henry through lunch (Ha! Bet you didn't know I secretly named my children after chocolate bars! No, I didn't, these are just more nicknames because everyone has to have seven) I'll run on the treadmill for an hour with some loud music and then make a nice big pot of spaghetti sauce and that way whenever Jacob gets home he can eat.

Petit four.

The newly-minted experimental optimist has a busy day amongst all the disappearing snow and drippy eaves. I had cake and coffee for breakfast, left over petit fours from a meeting at Jacob's church -they wrapped up the cake and sent it home for me because they are sweet and apparently now I can broadcast my cravings through the neighborhood on the wind.

No run today. It's cold and icy and dark and by the time I leave downtown after seeing Claus it will be just about time to pick up the kids and I'll probably be gluing myself back together with honey and paperclips in the car in an effort to appear just dandy so the kids can enjoy the status-quo fairytale they live in, the bubble I made for them so that they are less afffected by my issues than you would think.

Be grateful. I would crawl across broken glass before I would let them be affected by my problems. All they know is that sometimes I am a little sad and that I'm getting help to be a better person.

Whoops, my optimism hat blew off in the cake-crave wind. Let me fish it out of the snow and put it back on, pulling it down tightly over my eyes.

You can't see me.

Oh, wait, yes you can.

Tuesday, 13 March 2007

Princess edit.

For someone who doesn't mind me talking about the lap dances, he sure has one heck of a strong opinion about today's post, and I don't mind clarifying, to save the preacher a little embarrassment.

-He's really a very nice boy.

-Who doesn't so much think he is better than anyone.

-Who doesn't actually call people names.

-And has only made a few successful knock-out punches in his life because he doesn't think violence is the answer.

And the comment about him being able to work his penis properly maybe should not have ended "with all the readers I have." Because clearly he is not working it with the readers.

Oh shush. Keep your fantasies to yourself.

That is all. Pad Thai awaits, and your Bridget will try to be a little more lucid tomorrow. Last night was a long night. Ice falling, noises, dreams and the penis that worked very very well.

Nice to look at, nice to hold.

This is why I love you, Bridget.

Moments after I froze, blushing madly, because he caught me dancing in the kitchen last night, by myself, which would have looked like a cross between someone caught in the twitches of a very slow and sensual torture and a spiritual revival as experienced by a hippie lovechild.

    It's hidden far away
    But someday I may tell
    The tale of metal tangle
    When into your world I fell
    Without you now I wander soaking
    Secretly afraid
    'Cause in your grasp the fears don't last
    And some of them have stayed

Sample in a Jar was on, and everyone knows I can't sit still during that song. It has to get out, whatever it is. My very own revival.

He laughed. He was still laughing this morning as he headed off the ghost of 5:17 and offered to run with me, which we did and he talked about a concrete trust in us that he didn't recognize before, which is what led him to not stop me when I took off in the first place because he knows he's better than anyone (the return of the rarely seen ego) and if I'm off trying to conjure up ghosts then he knows that I'm going to be unsuccessful at it. My time with Cole is over now. He's not coming back. He isn't Caleb.

Jacob thinks Caleb is a jerk, a creep and an idiot and hopefully not willing to be the victim of any more of Jacob's haymakers, and probably only sent the email to passively stir up some extra trouble and nurse his wounded ego. Jacob was incredibly sympathetic to his plight, pointing out that if I had written something about Jacob not being able to work his penis properly with all the readers I have, he'd dig a hole in the ground and then hit himself in the head with a shovel until he fell in it.

Then he laughed again, because he really doesn't care about Caleb and Caleb isn't Cole and so I'm going to stuff this subject into a rowboat and push it off mightily from shore and it can beach somewhere else. I'm done with it.

    You tricked me like the others
    And now I don't belong
    The simple smiles and good times seem all wrong

Jacob ran slower today and waited for responses and he got to indulge himself in the contents of my silly head quite thoroughly while we splashed through mudpuddles and squinted every time we headed east, since the sun slept in again and came up low over the city.

His official comment is that I'm doing well and I'm still on track to possibly resembling a human bean someday. Not his words, mine, since his were longer and so darned clinical. We'll see what tomorrow brings because I haven't been to therapy in two weeks. I hope Claus has a fresh notepad. In any case, there's a rather optimistic outlook to me and I'm intrigued by that. Since I have no reputation as an optimist, I'm just going to try it out like a six year old on a two-wheeler and strike off shakily down the sidewalk with my helmet askew and see what happens.

Monday, 12 March 2007

Miss trusted.

    Honey why you calling me so late?
    It's kinda hard to talk right now.
    Honey why are you crying? Is everything okay?
    I gotta whisper 'cause I can't be too loud

    Well, my girl's in the next room
    Sometimes I wish she was you
    I guess we never really moved on

    It's really good to hear your voice say my name
    It sounds so sweet
    Coming from the lips of an angel
    Hearing those words it makes me weak

I humiliated Caleb and to retaliate he's written Jacob a character-obliterating email about me. One riddled with just enough truth and just enough lies to make it hard to discern which is which. He played on Jacob's weaknesses and on my own admissions and my past with Jacob to cast just enough of a shadow of a doubt over last weekend and life in general to set us right back where we were when he called and it's the last thing we need right now.

He can be very eloquent, very convincing, and very much a game-player. He's intriguing, even when he's an asshole about things. Exactly like Cole used to be. Some days I can't even believe Cole and Jacob could ever be so close but then I remember Jacob used Cole as a means to an end and Jacob has me now and I just wish Caleb would leave me alone. It was wrong of me to seek him out for comfort and I will never be more sorry than I am right now, after reading what he wrote about me.

His account of what happened that night are vastly, vastly different from mine and it isn't fair. He's playing cards I forgot he was holding.

Coffee in bed.

Underneath a layer of snow turned hard as glass from months of frozen temperatures, under the ice and the filth from a full winter's duration my heart is still beating, thawing, patiently waiting to feel the sun.

It rained last night. Outside our bedroom window I could hear the pitter-pat of the drops as they fell, washing away the light grime from the house in the early morning darkness and Jacob stirred restlessly and I put my hand up and stroked my fingers through his hair while I listened and my ears were grateful for a sound I haven't heard in a long time.

He turned over, his arm coming down around me and I was rolled into his sleep reluctantly, wide awake in a city of sleepers. His other hand came up under my ear and pulled my face into his, an exhausted kiss left on my lips, abandoned halfway done in his slip back into whatever blissful dream he was having.

His unconscious comfort is welcome but sometimes ineffectual, as is Cole's ghost that stands like a sentry in the corner, always watching and waiting for me in my dreams.

I really wish Cole would go away now.

Sunday, 11 March 2007

Sunday comics.

In the end Betty married Moose and then they turned Riverdale upside down.

Probably the funniest description I have ever heard of life in our neck of the woods. Credit goes to Duncan (fool on the hill, who never wants me to write anything about him) as told on a three-way call with Jacob to Andrew, expert out-of-looper and one of our longtime friends. In his defense, Andrew has been away for almost a year and has missed everything because he only called once during his travels and that was last night.

Saturday, 10 March 2007


So...Alice in Chains again. What a week.

No, actually this time I put it on the stereo on purpose because it was midnight and I wanted him to stop writing and quit reading and come to bed with me and the very last thing I do is nag people and so I turned on Grind and Oh my god. Surprise! Yes, it was a drive-by fully unsolicited lapdance.

Jacob likes those.

He gets a look on his face which I can only equate with showing a hungry caveman a butcher shop and a flaming barbecue.

Yes, it's an expression of total wonderment but it doesn't make me laugh like you're laughing now, it just makes me want to skip the teasing part altogether and go straight to trying to unbutton his shirt because hello, get these things off just a bit quicker, baby, please.

Someday he'll make my life easy and wear just t-shirts or something with fewer buttons. Button-fly jeans. Christ.

But he loves it to bits and he loves me to bits and most people would fault him for his weakness in me but I don't. And he doesn't. He loves me even when I need to try to control him in the only way I know how and I love him unconditionally even when he is ashamed to say he really loves it when I wind out and I can't get in control because I'm too far out of it.

It's a match made in heaven.

Friday, 9 March 2007

Shorn lamb.

    You're a head case with a smile
    Can't stop to make up your mind
    Education is so lame
    When you bitch and you moan
    You're a loose girl, I'm a guy
    You're a truth freak with a lie
    The situation is so strange
    It's a tv show*

Oh wow.

My seventies guitar hero preacher is no more.

Well, he is still somewhere around here, hidden inside the handsome man who walked into the house fully cleanshaven, with hair that's about two inches long if it's a millimeter. Looking like he joined the military to the point where I actually thought to ask if he had, since he never mentioned he was going to the barbershop, I wondered what else he had kept from me, perhaps enlisting?

Instead of his shaggy curtain of bangs and flippy curls around his collar and the awesomest beard this side of Woodstock, he now has a Major Haircut with a barely-there fringe now across his forehead that sweeps to one side and a completely bare face like a baby's ass.

The good news is he's still got a ton of hair. All the men in his family keep all of their hair to the grave.

Actually now that I've had a little time to adjust, he's a very very good looking man when he's clean cut. In a totally different way than the sexy rugged hippie looks that I adore so much.

And ears. Did you know Jacob had ears? Because I didn't.

*(Mark saw my 'lamb' title and started in with his Queens of the Stone Age Leg of Lamb rendition on the phone.)

Thursday, 8 March 2007

Left unfinished, by request.

(I've had many requests for the Coast Diaries blog content that was posted before I was yanked unceremoniously off my storytelling high by Caleb's threats and since these entries were already posted, here you go. You're all perverts and I love you for that.

If you have absolutely no idea what in the heck I'm talking about just enjoy some early true fairytales. And one horror story, because good things don't come cheap and all words come covered with cheese.)


It was a night that began on an emotional high. A night where he took her from her lover in a defiant display of wrath, his envy for what his enemy held evident in his eyes. And so he took what he wanted, again and again.

The air was heavy with the cloying smell of sweat and incense, the sultry heat of the summer night invasive, welcome. Her skin glistened with moisture, her waves recoiling into wild curls in defense of the suffocating warmth.

He tangled his fingers into her hair and pulled her head back gently until she was at his mercy. She smiled up at him willingly, breathing quietly, waiting for him to express his admiration for her body, which she had given him moments before, a tangle of sins fulfilled, lust, avarice and gluttony all brawling for first place in a night that saw a three way tie and plans for a rematch after some rest, after the heat relinquished it's grasp and invited a cool morning.

You are infinitely fuckable.

With one compliment he edified her the reverence with which he held for her form, his insatiability for her and thus introduced yet another deadly sin into their room that night. Pride. The one iniquity that would serve to wage a never-ending war against grace for the rest of their lives.

But not tonight.

The remainder of tonight would see sloth fulfilled as they slept deeply, the heat releasing them at long last, the oppressive tentacles retreating under the promise of a cloud-filled day.



He pulled the blanket around them both, and kissed her bare shoulder. She watched his expression as his eyes rose to meet her own. He traced her collarbone. She waited for him to speak, not daring to break the spell of the moment.

Stay with me.



One finger slid from her hairline on the back of her neck slowly down, gliding over silken, alabaster skin until it met the tiny indentation at the base of her spine. She shivered with delight. Her head reeled with the effects of the wine they had shared, in a single glass.

She was sitting in the center of his bed wrapped in baby blue cotton sheets and smiling down at her hands as he whispered to her. She couldn't make out his words and so she tried to turn to face him but he stopped her, taking her shoulders in his hands and holding her still. He resumed his solitary exploration of her flesh and she imagined what it would feel like if he simply enveloped her into his arms, the chemistry between them so intense that she had become obsessed with him. As he had with her.

When he asked her if he could paint her she agreed, having played the muse once before, knowing her role well, noting humorously that they were both aware that his colorful Hofmann-inspired dabblings had nothing to do with the human form. She agreed simply to be with him. To breathe his air and coexist in his headspace. And when he laughed and suggested on a whim that she should be nude for the piece she turned herself inside out, taking her clothes off as of they were aflame. He passed the sheet to her and looked around for a chair but he didn't like the coldness of it and so he suggested she find a comfortable seat on the bed.

This exercise served not in order to produce a work of art but to solidify his promise to her that she could trust him and she was demonstrating that she did.

His fingers left her skin hesitantly and he stood with effort, tearing his eyes from her curves and storming back to his blank canvas, which rested on the floor, mocking him. Three square feet of rough white textures that implored him to create.

She asked him if he was inspired by her.

He said yes, but not to paint.

And she smiled again.


Cold Comfort

She sat on the tailgate, sipping hot chocolate from a thermos, snowboard propped up against the bank, boots dangling a foot off the ground. She had removed her jacket and left her elfish hat and bibfront snowpants on, preparing to finish her quick break and head back up the hill for more punishment.

Just then he walked around the side of the truck and grinned from ear to ear.

You having fun?

It's a blast. You?

Best day of the season. You the only one here?

Yup. I can see most of them waiting at the lift.

Oh yeah, okay, I see them.

We're just fast.

Or very very slow.

They laughed together and he sat down beside her. She offered him a sip of her chocolate but he refused, pressing his forehead to hers instead. She could feel his cool breath on her mouth, minty from gum, slightly sour from physical exertion. His hair was damp, his eyes sparkled, set off by the snow, a blue she could drown in.

He leaned in and kissed her softly.

She pulled away, standing up, looking around for her gloves and jacket. He stood up and closed the distance between them, taking her face into his hands and holding it firmly as he kissed her a second time, letting his bottom lip slip over hers slowly.

Her knees were so weak she started to drop and he grabbed her arms to steady them both. She started to speak and he smiled.

I know.

Oh god.

Next year we're going out west and we're going to have our own room and I'm going to make love to you the whole trip and we won't even board.

Oh god.

Yes, it will be like that, I think.

I think if they saw us I'm dead.

No one saw us. No one is watching us.

God watches us.

God has bigger fish to fry.

Then kiss me again so I have something to keep.

He pulled us in close again and she could feel the stubble of his beard scraping against her nose, the woolly softness warming her face as he opened his mouth and put the gentlest of kisses on her lips. He pulled back with a smile that did little to cover the quiet discord in his expression.

They returned to the lift with our gear and got a chair to the top once again, talking about everything save for stolen kisses and future plans. They lived from one heartache to the next. Cold, to match the day.




Shh, just let me.

I don't....

Shhhh, baby. Trust me.

With that exchange he covered my eyes. And then I was functionally blind and deaf, resorting to a darkened world of taste, smell and touch. I could feel his thigh muscles as they contracted, regular, flexing at exactly half the beats of my heart as it pounded, my knees buckled onto the floor as my body failed to maintain enough strength under his assault to even stay upright. He ignored it and kept going and I searched around inside my brain for a way to somehow partner the way in which the sensory isolation brought forth the remaining senses in a remarkable way with the uncomfortable unfamiliarity of his actions.

I let go of my hesitation and as my reward he bit through the skin on my shoulder as he came in a violent explosion of sweat and strength.

But the blindfold remained. He shifted his hand enough so that when he flipped me onto my back again I was still in a black room, and he fought his way back in while I pushed against him and tried to block his approach with what little strength remained in my limbs, which were twisted and pulled and exhausted from a night of experimenting with new and old.

He began a fresh onslaught and I tasted blood. In my efforts to internalize his touch I had bitten my cheek and not noticed. I asked him to stop and he refused. My shoulder was now bleeding as well, I could feel it and smell the iron-heaviness in the air and I begged him to let me up.

He refused.

When he finally fell asleep I extricated myself from his arms and went to do a damage report. Two puncture wounds which stood out from my pale flesh like marks from the impaler. I was victim to a vampire, a monster that should only be found in storybooks and scary movies, not in your own room.

I squeezed my eyes and returned to bed, once again blind, not to the moment but to the knowledge, the confirmation that he was my own monster and that he was real.



He pressed her against the weathered grey wood of the fence, wishing away their visibility to the outside world until they were hidden, far away from anyone who might happen to stray away from the boardwalk. Hidden in the dunes he had the perfect place in which to steal a kiss, and to make his need for her known only to her, the way it should be.

The way it was every Thursday afternoon when she would shyly wait for him there.

She smiled up at him, squinting through the sun, the glare off the white sand and his throat was full with his heart. Her hair whipped around her face in a golden halo and her eyes were full of mirth. He took her face in his hands and kissed her softly once, then harder, leaving her throat and lips streaked with a path of glittering sand from his swim. She could feel the cool ocean brought to her as a gift from him on his cold lips, a salty, gritty taste infused with his love for her.

Her favorite taste in the world.

She put her arms around him, sharing the remaining seawater that rolled off his broad shoulders in constant rivulets. He slid his hands down her back and into her bikini bottoms and pushed her into him so that she would know she was wanted, that he could have her at that moment if he wanted. She replied in kind by moving away slightly and touching him through his swim trunks. Her expression turned to frustration and he refused to acknowledge that life existed outside their hidden meeting place, instead sliding his thumbs once again into the sides of her bottoms, and he pulled them down just a little. She cried out for him to stop because they might be seen. He ignored her.

He fell to his knees and kissed down her belly, browned by the sun, and stopped where it met the white of skin that must be covered in public. Her tan lines made him crazy for her. She was covered with sand, damp and refreshed by the swim he had brought with him out of the ocean. She was dizzy with her own desire for him and weighed down with a guilt she didn't want to think of right now.

He inched the bottoms down a little more and she pushed his head away, modest in their sudden risks. So he changed direction because he wasn't ready to let go of her, not just yet and so he stood and instead wrapped his arms around her, kissing her deeply, reaching his tongue down her throat briefly in an effort to taste her soul. She pressed her body against him hoping that he would find her soul inside and take it with him when he left. He ended with a gentle kiss and then he turned and walked away, head down, not looking back as she watched him go, the wind enveloping him in a relentless voyage, drying the salt into his skin in a film that he would wear for the remainder of that day.

And she put her fingers up to her lips to shelter them from the ocean breezes, so that the heartless wind could never take his kiss away again.


Spinning unbalanced.

Do I make a clunking sound like the washing machine?

The request for weekly written barometers has become standing (weekly? Try daily). A lovely little way for everyone to see inside Bridget's head so she doesn't run off with any sharp implements and dangerous epiphanies. Or any really really sad songs and a bottle of...oh, geez, I'll stop right there.

I'm like my very own three-minute tornado warning. A first for humankind. I'll be the test subject, God knows they couldn't have picked a fiercer, tinier tornado. I'm almost handleable. The post-apocalyptic cyclone girl, now with qualified supervision!

Firstly, I'm proud to say the kids are all registered for the fall at school. Still in elementary school, but Henry will be trading in his half days for a full day and I really won't know what to do with myself. I've had two extra little shadows for the past seven and a half years and really I'm finding now I can crawl so far inside myself when I'm alone that it's hard to crawl out when the kids get home. I'm going to get a lot done, but the kids are thriving and happy and this is very good for them. They continue to adjust amazingly well and I wish I could take cues from them in how to feel, sometimes.

On singing. Yes, every time I walk past Jacob he pulls me into his lap and sings come waste your time with me, he's possibly more happy to be enjoying our full spectrum of music than I am, though I wind up getting nothing done at all when he does that, instead I get done.


That is not a complaint, by the way.

He also confided to me during one of our silly 3 am conversations last night that he absolutely loves the way I call his name when he's out of the room.

Jaaaaaay cub!

Aw. I'm the only person who doesn't shorten his name very often when I say it out loud. Everyone calls him Jake. I tend not to shorten people's names. It's one of my more uptight quirks.

In other also unrelated things, I'm very relieved to be out of the beginning rock climbing torture class. I got a refund with a doctor's note, because heavily medicated people with stress issues shouldn't climb. Maybe next year. Jacob loves his extra-super adrenaline junkie ice climb class. They're going on a field trip in a week and he's like Henry was when they went to the train station. Excited! Five years old! Maybe I should pack him a lunch.

Also unrelated-I have a new cellphone. A Motorola one. It's going to take me forever to figure it out because I'm not great with new interfaces, but my Samsung was not repairable. Probably because in my fog of grief and shock I sat at the table one night and fed the pieces to a full vase of green water and dead roses that I forgot about after Valentine's week.

And lastly, Cole's letters. Did I appear to be stalling?

Heavens, yes.

The damn unread letters. Jacob played bad guy and asked me what I would do if I had been able to read them and if they had been awful, mean, hurtful words.

I said I would be sad but I would expect no less, really.

Then he asked me what I would do if they had contained apologies and reminders that some of our time together was good, that I mattered.

I said I would be vindicated and that I would know for sure that he didn't hate me and that he wasn't a monster, that he was still the Cole I fell in love with on the inside.

Then Jacob looked at me pointedly and in his dry, impatient manner said,

Well, then what in the hell would you do different as a result, Bridge?

I didn't have an answer for that, and this issue was resolved. He's right. In the grand scheme that is my life it wouldn't change a thing now. Cole is ashes and dust and the 7200 days and nights I spent with him are a memory that is unique to me. No one shares them because the only other person who spent them is gone.

Sometimes Jacob knows exactly how to retrain my brain in the logic required to make a little progress. By the time he and I will have spent 7200 days and nights together we'll be in our mid-fifties and kids will be grown and hopefully have families of their own and we'll be on our own together.

I'm hoping that we'll downsize a lot, minimize most of our belongings and that he will take me to see the world he knows outside of here, the world he was exploring while I was spending the final 3500 days I had remaining with Cole.

I feel like I'm in an okay place. My sanity has covered the price for my heart and I still have a shred to hold on to. Bridget's a safe kind of crazy, content to take her pills as required, charm people to bits and chase a little drama here and there and I've found I talk to Cole just a little too much as if he's some sort of demon angel watching over me, warring for my heart against the guardian angel Jacob, but not in a negative way. As I talk to him now it's almost a quiet boastfulness, a gentle thumbing of my nose at him for the way it all turned out. Possibly the very same way God speaks to me, I bet. I wouldn't doubt it for a moment.

    Shout your name into the wind
    And sometimes I will think of you
    Shout your name into the wind
    And if you ever think of me
    Kneel down and kiss the earth
    And show me what this thought is worth
    I'll never hear your voice again

So the forecast is clear, no tornadoes in my immediate future, just a hell of a lot of ground and time to make up, because life is now and I missed the first tornado forecast but now I've built the cellar and it's fully stocked for emergencies and we're down to just trying to stay calm in hopes that Bridget isn't simply winding herself up into a funnel once again.

It'll blow over. It always does.

Right before the sun comes out.

Wednesday, 7 March 2007

The contents of Bridget's little head.

Jacob's making me a Reuben sandwich for lunch. I love Reubens. And ice-cream floats because I was making jokes about living in a country made of ice cream last night. Bonus points if you know what movie that's from.

    Do I have to fall asleep with roses in my, roses in my hands?
    Would you get them if I did?
    No, you won't
    Cause you're gone, gone, gone, gone, gone.
    When you're dreaming with a broken heart
    The waking up is the hardest part.

Today's musical accompaniment will be provided by John Mayer, who sang this to us from the stereo as we slow-danced our way to bedtime last night, and I noticed how black Jacob's knuckles are on his right hand as he held my fingertips to his lips and kissed them and he smiled at me. I was thrilled to notice that my heart flip-flops when he looks at me. Still. Forever.

This morning was a deviation from the norm by far. Claus had an emergency and so my session was cancelled for the week, he is secure in the knowledge that I have my own handy live-in counselor and so I thought I'd grab my run, since I usually have to skip Wednesdays now.

Jacob invited himself to go running with me, which is a rare event. He runs twice as far and twice as fast as I usually do. Oh, and he likes to run and talk. Am I the only person in the world who can't carry on a conversation while running? Please, I prefer to put all my capacity into breathing. The ragged raspy panting kind, which Jacob so lovingly pointed out that I sound like I do when we're making love, only without his favorite little noises and hums and lyrical quirks I express erstwhile.

Oh, now you like those? What happened to the mogwai references? I love it when the singer changes his tune.

Right. There's the difference between pain and pleasure, buddy. And I don't get any pleasure from running until I hit the rush somewhere between the last mailbox and the sidewalk that leads to our front steps.

Which are wet today. Melting ice.

Clearing roads. I spy pavement.

Clocks springing (wintering) forward in four days. Which means more sunlight. A weekend with almost double-digit temperatures forecast for five days straight ahead, a sun so bright I had black spots in front of my eyes for an hour when I came inside and so I couldn't write.

A curse from me, who wants to make this the final season in a year of discontent. We're very quickly approaching a year since Jacob picked up my snowglobe and shook it so incredibly violently that when the glitter settled everything was rearranged and looked brand new.

A year. Almost. Almost there guys.

Four seasons of bitterness piled on top of difficulties on top of baggage and yet, yes we're still going. Right down the road in front of you in our winter running gear yelling insults to each other like the most loving disfunctional human beans in the world. It's glorious, it is.

And it's going to be a better spring.

Oh yum. My sandwich is ready. See you tomorrow.

Tuesday, 6 March 2007

Mail call.

I'm just...floored here.

The longer I post, the more familiar/comfortable I get with sharing things with you, the more I feel open to public judgement, ridicule, scorn.

And the more I am surprised by you.

What I thought would be the nail in my coffin here over the past few days, expecting a flood of hate email or inbox viruses or whatever it is people do when they don't like you on the internet, and instead I got something else entirely.

A lot of cheering, a lot of support, so many virtual hugs I feel sheepishly like a teddy bear in a nursery school.

I love you all.

People were happy we fought our way out of the place we wound up in, people were happy to see that we've made repairs (both to the poor doors in this house and to our relationship), that we're continuing on without letting stress break us down and you all seemed to be overwhelmingly thrilled that Jacob finally threw a punch (or two) at Caleb.

I knew you liked Jacob better than me, anyway.

And that's okay.

I do too.

Losing cool.

    Well I'd rather start off slow
    This whole thing's like
    Some sort of race
    Instead of winning what I want
    I'm sitting here in second place
    Because somewhere
    The one I wanna be with's
    with somebody else
    Oh god, I wanna be that
    Someone that you're with

We're a perfect match. I specialize in emotional damage and Jacob will now specialize in physical.

Would you mess with him?

Caleb didn't fly home, like he was supposed to. Like he should have. He really should have. Instead he was dumb enough to come here. To my house. Figuring that since I told Jacob what happened that Jacob would do what most guys would do, break something and walk out. Except that we did it in reverse, he broke something, walked out and then I went and fucked up royally.

So Jacob, who had been going over paperwork yesterday with his friend and fellow minister Sam, after they put a new door on the den, (say hi to Sam, guys, he'll be around a lot, he's taking over Jake's congregation and hey! Marriage counseling on the fly, boys) answered the door.

And pulled Caleb in by the collar and knocked him out with one punch.


Really fucking great.

Half of me was staring at the violence in my front hall and wondering how fast I could clean up the mess before the kids came home for lunch and the other half was cheering Jacob on.

Apparently Caleb is much more like Cole than I ever realized, since Cole was also dumb enough to repeatedly show up here despite a judge telling him he would go to jail if he did.

But Jacob wasn't done yet. He straddled Caleb, and pulled him up by his collar again and shook him awake. Caleb came around and Jacob told him if he came here again or touched me he'd snap Caleb in half. Jacob asked for a verbal affirmation so that he was sure Caleb understood his rules.

And then he hit him again.

They asked me to call his driver and I found the number in Caleb's blackberry and then the driver arrived in minutes and carried him out.

Jacob told the driver rather innocently that Caleb must have fallen.

Lucky for us Caleb's people are discreet. Caleb is no fucking saint, nothing will come from this except for hopefully Jacob's point getting across.

After the car pulled away, Jacob just looked down at me with that strange expression of half-wonderment and half-understanding, like the look you get when you ask a question you already have the answer to.

What in the hell do you do to people, Bridget?